


and i'm a house of cards

by countthestars



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Crossdressing Kink, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Slow Burn, Tour Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-05-05
Packaged: 2018-03-21 07:32:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3683538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/countthestars/pseuds/countthestars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Zayn is complex, but not a mystery, and it doesn't matter anyway because Harry's got him all figured out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and i'm a house of cards

**Author's Note:**

  * For [freedom90](https://archiveofourown.org/users/freedom90/gifts).



> Can't believe I got so lucky with your incredible character study prompt, and I sincerely hope this fic does it justice. For the record, I wrote 99% of this before Zayn left the band, but just be advised that it's canon tour fic and might hit a little close to home given everything that's happened. (Truly terrible timing for this fic, what can you do?) Also, this mostly follows the timeline of the WWA tour, but I cherry-picked bits from other tours/interviews, so something seems like it happened during the TMH tour, it probably did! 
> 
> Huge thanks to my beta for her constant reassurance and cheerleading, and without whom I would be utterly lost. Title from 'Sparks Fly' by Taylor Swift.

 

 

**(south america)**

 

It starts with this thrum, just beneath his skin, like he can feel the blood pulsing through his veins. By the time the arena fills, screams loud enough to echo backstage, Zayn's absolutely buzzing. He drums his fingers along random surfaces in a nervous beat; across the back of the chair Niall's sat in, the edge of the table piled with food for the crew, the top of Harry's bandana-covered head.

Harry tilts his head to the side to escape, eyes never straying from his mobile.

“Nervous?” he asks without looking up, legs sprawled as he slouches back on a sofa.

“No,” Zayn lies.

That, at least, earns him a glance from Harry.

“A bit,” Zayn amends. “First show, innit? New songs, and choreography, like.”

Harry snorts and Zayn's lip curls up, a laugh caught in his throat. Choreography might be a strong word, for their particular brand of dance. Coordinated walking around, maybe. Mostly Zayn's just hoping not to trip and fall flat on his face in front of thousands of people. It's happened before, usually with a little help from Louis, and it's not an experience he'd like to relive.

Niall's finally released from his chair, styled to Lou's satisfaction, and then it's Zayn's turn to sit still, leg jiggling as Lou fusses with his hair. There's something calming about this pre-show ritual, a bit of order in the chaos backstage as Liam and Louis run around, narrowly avoiding a collision with an unamused Paul. Niall starts pelting grapes at their retreating backs, but loses interest as they race out of the room, laughing madly. He turns his attention to Harry, who's got his mouth gaping open like a baby bird, and tries to toss a few grapes in a neat arc down his throat.

For a second, Zayn worries that Harry will choke and imagines how awkward the phone call would be, having to ring his mum and explain that her son has met an untimely end because of an unfortunate fruit accident. But it's fine. Harry manages to catch exactly none of Niall's grapes.

Zayn watches the last one ricochet off Harry's cheek from the corner of his eye, landing somewhere in the cracks between the sofa cushions. He wonders if it will be a raisin by the time someone finds it again and winces. Lou clucks at him.

Despite the distractions, the anxiety lingers, tangible as the sweat slicking his palms, until the intro music starts blasting from the stage. The boys gather in a huddle, then, shoulder to shoulder, and Zayn's hand isn't the only one that's damp when they pile them up.

“First show, boys,” Liam says, face split in a wide, boyish grin.

“Gonna fucking smash it,” Louis adds, with his usual brand of unwavering certainty.

Their three-count is perfectly in sync, which is more of a testament to how long they've been doing this together than any conscious effort at coordination, and they take their places as the intro music slowly fades.

Like clockwork, the shot of adrenaline hits when they walk out on stage, Zayn's heartbeat spiking from something besides nerves as the wave of screams drowns out the opening chords of 'Midnight Memories.' It's enough to carry him through the show, too caught up in the thrill to worry about the number of eyes on him.

“Bogota, make some noise!” Liam roars, and the sound is deafening, even with his in-ears, enough to make Zayn take a staggering step back. He can see Niall shaking his head, the expression of disbelief etched on his face at the sheer size of the crowd, the knowledge that there are three continents worth of shows just like this on the horizon.

Zayn grins.

Being on stage is a rush like nothing else he's ever experienced, and it makes him almost dizzy with how much he loves it. He feeds off the other boys' energy; the rumbling vibrations of the stage beneath his feet; the flash of phone and camera lights from the crowd winking brightly in the dark, flickering constellations in a galaxy just for them.

The nerves don't come back until it's time for Zayn to give his speech. It's like the size of the arena hits him all over again, and there's this pressure he never feels when he's singing: to find the right words and put them in the right order, his brain tripping over itself with too many thoughts at once. He takes a fortifying breath before bringing his mic to his lips.

“So first of all, I want to say thank you for being here tonight.” Zayn pauses to wait out the screams, scratching absently at the stubble prickling along his chin. “And I want to thank you for being here for the last four years. You guys have been absolutely amazing. Four years ago, I didn't even have a passport, and now I get to go to places all over the world.”

He pushes through the end of his little speech, talking over the noise of the crowd. “So. This next one is a little bit of a chilled out one, so I need a favor from you. Get out your phones and put the flash on, 'cause this is 'Little Things.'”

It's a stroke of luck that the choreography mostly just involves everyone sitting, so Zayn doesn't have to acknowledge the way his knees go a bit shaky towards the end. At least the anxiety evaporates as quickly as it came when he starts singing again, slipping back into his comfort zone.

The only good thing about Zayn's occasional bout of nerves on stage is that it's really an internal sort of problem, which means that no one but him knows that his brain gets close to short-circuiting sometimes. Or – no one in the crowd can tell, at any rate.

Harry's sat with his back mostly towards Zayn, but twists around until he can catch Zayn's eye in the middle of the song. All he does is raise an eyebrow, but Zayn can read him like a well worn book. He shrugs one shoulder, which makes Harry frown. Before he can try to convey a more complex message through a series of increasingly complicated facial expressions, Louis' verse ends and it's Harry's turn to sing.

Zayn thinks Harry will let it go, but instead he holds Zayn's gaze, singing his verse directly at Zayn. The crowd eats it up, if the screams are anything to go by, nearly drowning out Harry's voice as he croons, “but you're perfect to me” with a wink in Zayn's direction.

It makes Zayn shake his head, lips twitching up helplessly as Harry finally turns back towards the crowd, a satisfied smirk on his face.

 

 

They've got some press thing in Buenos Aires between shows, which is unfortunate because Zayn would rather be asleep. Liam hasn't shut up about his trip to Machu Picchu with Harry a few days ago, practically vibrating with excitement in the back of the van as he babbles, and Zayn is  _tired_.

“Have you quite finished?” Louis asks, screeching with outraged laughter when Liam retaliates by digging his fingers into Louis' ticklish sides. Louis kicks his feet into the back of Zayn's seat as he tries to unsuccessfully squirm away. Zayn would complain, but he's found the exact right angle to pillow his head comfortably on Harry's boney shoulder and doesn't want to upset the balance.

It's a long car ride before they finally arrive. Liam's still a bit bouncy, as they're all filing in for the interview, and it's – intimate, Zayn decides. There are a handful of fans and what looks to be their parents, sat on the floor in front of them, and an interviewer with a truly colorful pair of socks on. Going down the line, the boys show off their own plain black socks, because apparently socks are a good ice breaker, the same in any language.

The fans aren't screaming, and it's a small group, but Zayn feels hot around the collar all the same. He's sandwiched between Niall and Liam, at least, and lets their voices wash over him, nodding along like he can understand when the interviewer lets out another rapid stream of Spanish.

He translates his speech a second later, some vaguely cute fan story, following it up with a question, “So, ehm, who were your idols, when you were teenagers?”

The silence lasts all of a heartbeat before Louis is filling it, immediately spouting off about Beckham. Then Liam jumps in with Robbie Williams, carrying on about his mum being a fangirl, and Zayn scratches at the stubble on his jaw that hasn't quite reached beard status.

“I liked the Power Rangers,” he mumbles to Niall in undertone, voice soft enough that he's not actually interrupting Liam.

“Tell them,” Niall orders, tipping his head towards the fans. Zayn picks at his sleeve, fussing with the cuff. Liam's still talking.

“You know I love them. Know all about them,” he adds, just loud enough for Niall to hear. It's a stupid answer, probably, idolizing some kids' show. Niall nods indulgently anyway, and Zayn's content to leave it at that.

Liam and Louis are laughing at something Zayn strongly suspects is an inappropriate inside-joke about David Essex and Liam's mum, and he's fully expecting the interviewer to move on to the next question before they get completely derailed, when he suddenly turns towards Zayn.

“Zayn?”

He's caught a bit off-guard, if he's being honest. “Umm,” he stalls, mind completely blanking on a single idol who didn't fight evil in a red leotard. Do fictional idols even count? To be fair, Zayn  _thought_  the Power Rangers were real, when he was kid, but that might be splitting hairs and he's fairly sure he's over thinking this question.

There's a sharp elbow digging into his side, and Niall prompts, “What you just said to me!”

“Um,” Zayn hedges, finally looking up to meet the interview's gaze. “I didn't - didn't really have one, I don't think.”

“Tell 'em what you said to me,” Niall insists, voice leaving no room for argument. He still sounds like he's smiling, though.

“I used to watch a lot of Power Rangers,” Zayn finally offers, loud enough for the microphone to catch. He adds a few serious head nods, like it's a legitimate answer.

Maybe it is, because the interviewer says, “Oh, great, there you go!”

Zayn keeps nodding, because apparently being a bobble-head doll is easier than speech today. Harry's sitting the furthest away from him, but he catches Zayn's eye all the same, lips tipped up into a tiny smile of approval.

Zayn scratches at his stubble again.

 

 

“No, no, no,” Zayn croaks, smoke escaping in wisps from between his teeth. “Liam's definitely the hulk. Have you seen him when he gets mad, bro? 'S fuckin' scary, like.”

Louis plucks the spliff from Zayn's fingers, cherry burning red as he inhales. Zayn watches as his ribcage expands, wonders if an x-ray would capture the smoke swirling in his lungs. Maybe not. He thinks there's – there's some science thing, probably, that could explain it, but trying to keep hold of a thought is like watching grains of sand fall through the spaces between his fingers.

“You're talking shit,” Louis says, voice tight as he tries to hold the smoke in his lungs. His chest deflates a moment later, smoke crawling lazily towards the ceiling. “Liam doesn't get mad. He gets disappointed.”

“When he stubs his toe, or summat,” Zayn protests. He flaps his hand lazily to really sell his argument. “And he goes -” he makes a sort of growling noise, low in the back of his throat.

Louis rolls over to press his creaky laughter into Zayn's shoulder, his breath warm and damp through the fabric of Zayn's t-shirt. It takes about three seconds before Zayn cracks, a rough laugh bubbling out of his throat. The floor of the bus should feel uncomfortable, hard and unforgiving under him, especially with half of Louis' weight draped on top of him, but mostly Zayn just feels safe.

He tells Louis, because it seems important that he know this.

“Bro,” Louis says. Then he's shifting his weight, pushing up until he's resting on one elbow, the tattoos etched onto his forearm angled towards Zayn.

Zayn reaches out with his fingertip, tracing it over the edge of the bird inked into Louis' skin before tapping it against the Bus 1 tattoo just beneath. Louis grins back at him, light glinting faintly off his teeth.

The sound of someone clearing their throat interrupts and Zayn lolls his head towards the noise. Harry's standing in the doorway between the back lounge and the bunks, fringe pulled back from his face with a bandana that probably cost more than a month's rent of the house Zayn grew up in. He looks like a disgruntled kitten with too much hair. It nearly sets Zayn off laughing again.

“Harry!” Louis crows, still sprawled over Zayn. “Tell Zayn he's wrong. Tell him that--”

“I'm not wrong! I'm  _right_ ,” Zayn insists, reaching down to pinch the dip of Louis' waist. Louis yelps, jerking his knee up on instinct, and it catches Zayn full in the side. It takes a sluggish moment for the pain to register, and even then it's dulled. Fending off Louis takes his full attention and Zayn barely notices Harry stepping carefully over them, rooting around in the back of the bus for something.

When he turns around a minute later, there's a candle in his hand.

“How many candles do you have hidden on this bus?” Louis demands, taking the words out of Zayn's mouth.

Harry shrugs. “Want me to light it?”

“What scent is it?”

Squinting to read the label, Harry frowns. “Um. Early Sunrise?”

Louis wrinkles his nose. Taking advantage of the distraction, Zayn shoves him fully off, pushing himself up off the floor so he can flop down onto the couch that wraps around the back lounge instead.

“I've been abandoned,” Louis moans pathetically from the ground. Zayn nudges him with his socked foot and he makes a sad goat noise.

“There's no one stopping you from getting on the couch, bro,” Zayn points out.

Clearing his throat again, Harry shifts his weight from one foot to the other. His eyes look a bit red, like he's been smoking too.

“'M gonna – Bus 2.” He gestures in the general direction of the second bus with the candle, his other hand rubbing at his eye. Zayn frowns.

“Is the smoke bothering ya, babes?”

“A little,” Harry admits. He smiles a second later. “That's why we have two buses though, right? So you and Lou can party like animals on Bus 1, and the rest of us can sleep like normal humans on Bus 2.”

His tone is light, joking, but Zayn keeps frowning.

Harry cautiously steps back over Louis, who still hasn't managed to move from his home on the floor. Louis doesn't even try to trip him, so he might have actually fallen asleep. He'll regret that in the morning, Zayn thinks hazily. But morning seems like a long way away when Zayn's brain is fuzzy with his high, the weed chasing the away the last of the adrenaline from the show, making him boneless. Sleep tugs insistently at the corners of his mind.

Harry's leg brushes against Zayn's as he walks towards the front of the bus, a shock of static electricity, and Zayn reaches out to wrap his hand around Harry's wrist. It's thicker than Zayn's, but still slim enough that his fingers reach all the way around, fingertips brushing. He can feel Harry's pulse beating softly, steadily.

“All right?” Harry asks, voice pitched low. The tendons in his wrist flex beneath Zayn's grip, but he doesn't try to pull away. There's a snore from the floor; Louis is definitely out cold.

“Just chillin'.” With a lazy grin, Zayn rubs his thumb over the thin skin of Harry's wrist. He can feel Harry's pulse pick up, fluttering against his fingers.

Gently, Harry tugs his arm free from Zayn's hold. Zayn lets his hand drop limply onto his lap, watching with hooded eyes as Harry reaches up and pushes Zayn's fringe off his forehead. His eyes slip shut without his permission, head leaning against the back of the couch.

“Need a haircut,” Harry observes, fingers still combing through Zayn's hair.

“Mmm. Thinkin' 'bout growin' it out,” Zayn mumbles, turning his face towards Harry's gentle touch.

There's a brief, stinging pain as Harry tugs a shade too hard on a strand of hair, and then his fingers disappear all together.

“Night, Zayn,” he says.

It takes Zayn a moment to blink his eyes back open, movements lethargic as he looks around the bus, finally spotting Harry's retreating shadow as he slips through the doorway towards the front of the bus.

“Night, Harry,” he whispers back. The only response is another loud snore from Louis.

 

 

The South American leg of the tour isn't long, exactly – it's got nothing on the grueling American leg they're ending with – but it always takes Zayn longer than the others to readjust to life on the road. Coming down from the adrenaline high of a show is hard enough, but sleep is especially elusive when you're in an unfamiliar bed and the sheets don't smell right, don't smell like the comfort of home. It's why he usually crashes on the bus with Louis; it's already a tip, only a few weeks into the tour, but at least it's  _familiar._

They're only a few days away from their first real break, but Zayn's exhausted and cranky, worn out from the long days and late nights. On top of performing, they've been working on the new album, recording tracks in makeshift hotel room studios. It's a grueling schedule, and Zayn's ground down to the bone.

There are a few hours yet until he's expected to be anywhere for tonight's show, and the rest of the boys have fucked off somewhere else, doing god knows what, which means Zayn's got the bus to himself. Brushing aside his vague worries that Liam and Louis are going to do something stupid and get themselves arrested in a foreign country, Zayn burrows into his bunk, curtain pulled tight to block out the light. He just needs an hour or two of sleep, and then he can handle the show tonight.

The door of the bus slams open not five minutes later, heavy footsteps thudding up the stairs, and Zayn nearly groans. Harry, if he had to guess.

There's a bang, like someone's accidentally bumped into the wall, and a muttered curse. Yeah, definitely Harry.

“Please fuck off,” Zayn says. He thinks it skirts the line between urgency and courtesy, without mincing words.

Harry's footsteps still, and for an entire seven seconds it seems like going to sleep is a real possibility. Then Harry pokes his head into Zayn's bunk, shattering the dream.

“You all right, mate?”

Zayn cracks one eye open for the sole purpose of glaring at Harry. “Be better if I was asleep,” he says pointedly.

Harry gives him his best innocent smile – the one he uses when he knows exactly what he's doing, but hopes you don't. “You know what helps me sleep?” he asks slyly.

“Don't need help sleeping, need you to – oh, fuck  _off_ ,” Zayn groans when Harry starts making a wanking motion with his hand.

Harry laughs, obviously pleased with himself. He sobers up a minute later, fingers twitching like he was going to reach for Zayn, but thought better of it. “Seriously, bro. You all right?”

“'M fine.” Zayn sighs. Harry won't be satisfied with that answer, will keep pushing until Zayn caves. “Just, like. Tired, you know?”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, even though he doesn't. Harry doesn't get tired the way Zayn does, doesn't need the same four walls around him everyday to feel grounded, to center himself.

He prods at Zayn's side. “Budge up.”

With an aggrieved sigh, Zayn rolls onto his side so his back is pressed to the wall of the bus. Kicking off his shoes, Harry climbs into the bunk, wriggling around until his back is flush with Zayn's chest, reaching back to pull Zayn's arm around him, settling their clasped hands against his heartbeat.

“You're too big to be the little spoon,” Zayn mumbles into Harry's hair. It's soft against his lips, smelling faintly like fruit and something organic.

“Shush,” Harry orders. “We're sleeping now. I'm very tired, Zayn.”

If Zayn's soft laugh tickles the back of Harry's neck, he gives no indication. “Sure you don't need to light one of your candles first?”

Harry grinds his arse back against Zayn, a shade too aggressive to be classified as banter between mates. Which says a lot about the boundaries in this band, Zayn muses, that he considers a friendly grind a form of banter in the first place. “Sure you don't need a wank?”

“It would be so incredibly easy,” Zayn observes, “to shove you out of this bunk.”

“Okay, okay! I'll behave. I'm behaving.”

He keeps his promise, which is a good thing, because Zayn would have a really awkward time trying to rationalize the interested twitch his dick gives at the feeling of Harry's boney arse.

 

 

“I'm bored,” Harry announces.

“Mm-hmm.” Zayn's curled up on a sofa backstage, a dogeared sketchbook open on his lap. Cocking his head, he rests the butt of his Sharpie against his bottom lip as he considers his drawing. He can never get the eyes quite right, one of them always turning out bigger than the other. There's no rule that says robot eyes have to be symmetrical though, and honestly it looks quite sick.

“Zayn,” Harry whinges, poking his cheek. “I'm  _bored_.”

Zayn swats him away. “Go bother Lou. I'm busy.”

Harry's never been good at being told no. He folds himself onto the sofa, practically in Zayn's lap. It's not unlike a dog, begging for a scratch. “Zayn. Do me.”

Zayn's fingers jerk, marring the drawing with a thick black line across the robot's face. Fuck. Zayn was thinking about posting this one on twitter, too.

“What?” he manages to choke out.

Harry shoves his forearm in Zayn's face. “Draw on me.”

Laugh a little shaky, Zayn drops the sketchbook, ruined drawing and all, to the floor. He grabs Harry's wrist, twisting his arm around to find a bare patch of skin. “Bro, you don't have any room left.”

Harry pouts, brow furrowing, and then his face lights up with a sudden smile. He reaches for his belt and Zayn watches with growing confusion as he wriggles his hips, shoving his too-tight jeans down his thighs with no small struggle.

“Uh, Harry?”

He tries to hook one of his legs over Zayn's, which would have been a better plan if he'd managed to get his trousers past his knees. He nearly topples right off the sofa, an uncoordinated mess, but Zayn grabs his thigh to steady him, Harry's skin warm against his palm. Harry beams at him.

“There's room on my leg, yeah? C'mon, draw something sick.”

“You're an idiot,” Zayn informs him, but he's already studying the empty canvas of Harry's pale thigh, considering. “What do ya want?”

“Something to remember Brazil,” Harry finally decides, after a long moment of deep contemplation.

Zayn taps the end of the Sharpie against Harry's leg, still holding him steady with his other hand. Head tipped back, Harry closes his eyes and relaxes onto the sofa, the weight of his leg solid and grounding in Zayn's lap. Zayn should probably draw a dick on his thigh, but that's really more Louis' style.

With steady fingers, Zayn sets the tip of the Sharpie to Harry's skin, watching the ink bleed out as he traces careful lines. He can feel the way Harry melts under the attention, going almost boneless as Zayn works.

It's not long before Zayn finishes, recapping the Sharpie with satisfaction. He leans down to blow on the ink so it doesn't smear, thumbing over the lines once it's dry. A muscle in Harry's thigh twitches at the touch.

“Well? What do you think?”

Harry slowly opens his eyes, blinking sleepily at Zayn, before peering down to examine Zayn's work.

“Sick,” he says. “Should get it tattooed for real.”

“Fuck off. It's not that great,” Zayn protests, secretly pleased. Harry just smiles smugly, hitching his hips up so he can tug his trousers back on.

It should not come as a surprise, as well as he knows Harry, but Zayn still watches with complete disbelief as Harry goes for his belt on stage later, actually undoing his flies in the middle of the show. Liam glances at him, eyes wide, silently asking if this is really happening.

Lips pulled back in a smirk, Harry shoves his skinny jeans down past the top of his thigh, showing off a white patch of skin framed by his black briefs and black trousers. The roar of the audience is shattering, thousands of lights flashing as the fans try to snap a picture of the word  _Brasil!_  scrawled across Harry's skin in Zayn's artistic lettering.

He pulls his jeans back up after only a few seconds, tease that he is, and Zayn finds himself shaking his head, fondness and exasperation warring.

During the next song, Harry brushes past him on stage, leaning to whisper directly in his ear. “Think they liked it, yeah?”

“You're shameless,” Zayn murmurs back. Without thinking, he reaches down to squeeze the top of Harry's thigh, right where the ink stains his skin. The movement is too quick for the fans to catch, Zayn pulling away almost immediately to hit his mark further down the stage. He can feel Harry's gaze on him though, burning the back of neck, as possessive as Zayn's fleeting touch.

 

 

**(europe)**

 

Zayn's first thought, upon waking, is that it's too fucking early. His second thought strays a little more into homicidal territory, and Harry's smiling face inches from his own does little to dispel the feeling.

“W'time'sit?” Zayn mumbles, burying the words in his pillow. Harry's spent enough early mornings with Zayn to translate the garbled sentence without batting an eye.

“Nearly two!” he says brightly. There's an equally bright splash of sunlight blinding Zayn a moment later as Harry rips open the blackout curtains Zayn had installed specifically to avoid this situation. London is never this sunny. Nothing is fair.

“I hate you.”

Harry looks wounded. Well, Zayn assumes that's the expression he's wearing. He's already pulled the duvet over his head to block out the light, so he couldn't say for sure.

“Zayn,” Harry wheedles. There's a tug on the duvet. Zayn clings harder.

“No.”

“You don't even know what I was going to ask.” There's definitely a pout in Harry's voice.

Another thought slowly occurs to Zayn, his brain sluggish with sleep. He's not great at mornings. Or early afternoons, as it were. He peeks out of the duvet, squinting his eyes suspiciously at Harry. “How did you get in my house?”

Harry doesn't even have the grace to look abashed. “You gave me a key,” he reminds Zayn smugly. “Also, Danny let me in.”

Apparently loyalty is in short supply these days. “Okay,” Zayn says, drawing the word out. “Then  _why_  are you in my house?”

“You wouldn't answer your phone.”

Zayn raises a brow. He never answers his phone when they're on break. It's an established  _thing_. Anyway, Louis will text Danny if something important comes up.

Harry meets his dark glare head on, long since immune. The tan he got in South America has turned to a healthy bronze courtesy of the LA sun, and strands of burnished gold streak his hair. He hasn't bothered buttoning his shirt, the butterfly inked on his stomach just visible beneath his swallows, and his jeans must've been painted on, they're so tight. He looks every inch a popstar.

Scratching at his chin, Zayn can feel the scrape of several days of stubble covering his jaw. His eyes are still puffy with sleep, crusty at the corners, but Zayn doesn't feel self-conscious. Not about his looks, anyway. It's a bit more unsettling to have Harry in his space, his curious gaze raking over Zayn's art splattered walls, the mountains of dark clothes that split his floor into valleys.

“So,” Harry finally says, a smile in his voice. “This is how the mysterious one lives.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Zayn says without heat, rubbing at his eyes with a fist. Harry laughs, nudging at one of Zayn's piles with his booted foot. “Seriously, bro. There's rumors on twitter that you're like, a robot, or something. If only they could see how disgustingly human this mess is.”

“You're a disgusting mess,” Zayn retorts, which isn't his strongest work. It's practically morning and he's still half asleep, all right?

“Heyyyy.” Harry sounds offended out of habit more than anything else. He catches something interesting on the toe of his boot, balancing precariously on one foot like a drunken stork to snatch it up with his fingers.

Holding it out for Zayn's inspection, he says gleefully, “Zayn, you  _slag_.”

It takes Zayn a moment to figure out what Harry's got, and then he groans. “Put those down,  _Jesus_.”

Harry just looks more intrigued. “What are you doing with lacy knickers in your room, anyway? Thought you and Perrie broke up months ago.”

They had. It'd been a mutual decision, Zayn's schedule and Perrie's ambition daunting roadblocks for a fledgling relationship. They were still friends, no matter how the tabloids spun it.

“They're not hers,” Zayn blurts, and then quickly changes the subject before Harry can ask who they actually belong to. “And you never answered my question. Why are you here?”

Harry presses a hand to his chest, feigning hurt. He's a shit actor, though, the twitch in his lips belying his amusement. “I can't believe my motives are being questioned like this,” he says in a tone that implies he expected his motives to be questioned like this. “Can't a lad invite another lad to dinner without all the accusations?”

Zayn makes a disbelieving face. “You broke into my house to ask to get dinner?”

Ignoring the jab, Harry grins. “We could order in and play FIFA. If you think you can beat me, that is.”

Harry's shit at FIFA. It sounds like a setup.

“Okay,” Zayn agrees anyway. The tour starts up again in a few days, and as nice as the solitude has been, the house quiet save for Danny and Ant, Zayn finds that he wouldn't mind the company.

Rolling out of bed, Zayn grabs for a pair of trackies to pull on over his pants. He ignores the weight of Harry's eyes on him, the way it makes his skin itch. It's not quite an unpleasant feeling, but it's something better left dissected later.

“C'mon, bro,” Zayn orders. Discreetly, he kicks the knickers Harry finally dropped underneath his bed. Pretends he doesn't see the way Harry watches with obvious interest.

Zayn wins five straight games before Harry falls asleep on his shoulder, snoring like a hoover. Cheek pressed to Harry's soft curls, Zayn resigns himself to an uncomfortable night of kipping on the couch.

Sleep catches him quick, which is lucky, because Zayn's still not ready to analyze this growing thing between him and Harry, to chase the tangled thread of emotions to their source, or dwell on why Harry traded the sunny LA coastline for Zayn's tip of a flat in cloudy London.

 

 

Niall's got a white-knuckled grip on his guitar, staring straight ahead as the intro music fades away to the excited rumbling of the crowd. The electricity is palpable, flowing like a current through Zayn's veins as he stands shoulder to shoulder with his boys.

They're kicking off the European leg with Croke  _fucking_  Park.

Zayn keeps waiting for the peak, the high he's never going to top. The euphoria of reaching the live shows in their X-Factor days was like nothing Zayn had ever experienced before. The taste of success had made failure that much more bitter, and he buried the fear that they'd never make it off Simon Cowell's stage deep, deep down. That seed of doubt still sits there now, though Zayn's never let it grow.

It serves as a reminder, mostly. A reminder that nothing is guaranteed, a reminder that nothing is to be taken for granted, a reminder that there's always an expiration date, looming on the horizon.

Which, like. Isn't  _that_  dramatic. It keeps him grounded, humbled. Makes each new peak just as special as the last, in this never ending upward climb. Niall's fingers are trembling on the frets of his guitar and there's a tell-tale sheen in his eyes, and it's – it's better than performing at MSG, better than winning a Brit, because it's happening now in this moment, because he's sharing this stage with four boys who are more like brothers than mates.

Harry sidles over to his side, his half-buttoned shirt louder than the crowd, and throws an arm over Zayn's shoulders. The Irish air is chilly in late May, damp with the threat of rain, and the press of Harry's side against his is a burning line of heat.

All right. Three boys who are more like brothers than mates, and one who seems insistent on creating his own category. Zayn hasn't quite figured out what it is, just that it's somewhere outside of his normal boxes, so he shoves it down, shoves it deep.

Like Harry could be so easily buried.

When the show ends, they trip backstage, punch drunk on adrenaline and miles from coming down. They've got two more shows at Croke Park, and Niall's already calling for shots, his laughter a loud ricochet backstage. Louis leaps onto Liam's back with the enthusiasm of a rodeo cowboy, nearly bowling both of them into Niall, and Zayn hangs back, distancing himself from the impending crash.

The warmth at his back clings like a shadow, and then Harry's chin is hooking over his shoulder.

“Irish Princess looks happy, doesn't he?”

Zayn snorts. There's a cheap green tiara clinging stubbornly to Niall's head, a gift thrown onto the stage at their feet. Liam might've been the one to crown Niall with it, but Niall milked it for all it was worth, lapping up the attention like he was actually royalty. The probability that it's going to end up in broken pieces at Louis' hand is high, but the probability that Niall will be too drunk to mind is even higher.

“You ever think,” Zayn starts. Arms wrapped securely around Zayn's middle, Harry waits patiently for Zayn to collect his thoughts. “Like, it's got to end sometime, right? It can't go on like this, forever.”

Harry hums thoughtfully. He doesn't ask for clarification, if Zayn means the band or the high or the fame, or something else entirely. Doesn't shy away from the question, either.

“Nah,” he finally decides. “Just evolves, doesn't it? Won't end, exactly, just... change. Grow into something else.” He pauses. “Or we'll be like Keith Richards, still doing this when we're wrinkly and old.”

Zayn laughs, head tipped back against Harry's shoulder. “You're an idiot,” he says, not bothering to hide the fondness in his voice.

“Takes one to know one,” Harry says smugly. He nips at the skin of Zayn's neck, the stinging press of teeth too brief to leave a mark, before pulling away, galloping after the rest of the boys on his gangly giraffe legs.

Belatedly, Zayn touches his fingers to his neck, but all he can feel is his racing pulse.

 

 

The hectic schedule catches up to Harry only a few days after Croke Park. It starts with a sniffle, and by the time they arrive in Manchester, he's been put on vocal rest, his voice a painful sounding rasp whenever he tries to talk.

Of course, that doesn't stop him from prancing about the stage, croaking out apologies that he can't sing. Niall goes into full mother hen mode, trailing after him and cutting his speeches off with an exasperated, “Shut up, Harry!” when his glaring doesn't work. He even kicks Harry a few times, but it's Niall, so it's more of a gentle, loving nudge.

Despite his energy in front of the crowd, Harry looks absolutely miserable by the end of the show, his smile dropping as soon as he shuffles backstage. There are dark bags under his red-rimmed eyes and his skin is pale despite the LA tan. He's banished to Bus 2 by an insistent Louis, and although both Liam and Niall look apologetic, they don't want to be in close quarters with Harry either, and catch whatever he's got.

So it's not surprising that Harry looks at him with vague confusion when Zayn follows him up the steps onto the bus. He doesn't say anything, just shuffles to the back to cocoon himself under a mound of blankets. When Zayn sinks down on the couch next to him, burying his fingers in Harry's hair, Harry makes a little noise in the back of his throat, pressing his hot cheek to Zayn's thigh.

“Gonna get you sick too, if you're not careful,” he mumbles, voice barely more than a croak.

“I'm always careful,” Zayn lies. He smooths Harry's hair back from his forehead, making sure not to tug at any snarls. Harry's breath comes in warm pants, the pink of his lips feverishly bright against his pallid skin.

“You want anything? Tea, or soup, or summat?” Zayn's not going to get up off this couch, but he strategically left his mobile in his pocket. If he sends Paul enough sad face emojis, he'll probably be convinced to bring them something hot for Harry's throat.

Harry shakes his head. “No. Just... stay with me?”

“I'm not going anywhere,” Zayn promises. The corner of Harry's mouth twitches with the intention of a smile, but he lacks the follow through. He keeps his face pillowed on Zayn's thigh, fingers brushing the fabric of his joggers like he'd be clinging if he had the energy.

“Could, like...” Zayn licks his lips. “Want me to read you a comic? 'S what I used to do, when I was sick as a kid.”

For a long moment, Zayn thinks Harry's already fallen asleep, his breathing even and deep. He's glad, because it was a ridiculous suggestion. Harry doesn't even  _like_  comics, and Zayn feels like he's exposed some private part of himself, something tender that he's been keeping hidden and safe.

“Yeah,” Harry finally mumbles. “The one that's you. With the blonde streak?”

“What are you – oh, do you mean  _Ghost Rider_?”

“Sure,” Harry says amiably. He sounds more than half asleep, but his fingers have curled more tightly against Zayn's leg, holding on with something like determination.

“I didn't bring that one,” Zayn says, apologetic.

“'S all right. Just tell me about it, then. Wanna--” his voice cracks around a yawn. “Wanna listen to your voice.”

Zayn can feel heat creeping up the back of his neck at the frank admission, but Harry's eyes stay closed, his lashes a dark smudge that makes him look weirdly vulnerable. He swallows, but starts talking, voice pitched low to match the subdued atmosphere of the bus.

Harry's clammy hand finds his, and he threads their fingers together, rings clinking. Zayn's never been much for hand holding, but Harry seems to like it when Zayn rubs his thumb gently over his knuckles, breathing out a soft sigh and nudging his cheek against Zayn's leg.

Harry wakes himself up coughing half a dozen times during the night, but Zayn's there every time. He'd do it for any of his boys, he tells himself, and almost believes it.

 

 

“Sorry mate, but you brought this on yourself.”

“Thanks for the support,” Zayn tries to say, but it comes out a sad croak. Harry makes a distressed sort of noise, smoothing the wrinkles out of the blanket draped around Zayn's shoulders.

“Leave him alone, Lou,” he says, giving Louis a glare that is probably meant to be intimidating, but falls closer to petulant baby cow. “Just because Zayn's a  _loyal friend_ , who doesn't  _abandon_  his bandmates, even when they get sick--”

Louis laughs, a loud cackle that hurts Zayn's head. “He's a bloody idiot, is what he is. We tried to quarantine you for a reason, H. No one wants your germs.”

Or Zayn's, apparently. Louis is refusing to step a toe over the line to the back lounge of Bus 2, where Zayn is curled into a miserable ball and Harry is wringing his hands uselessly. Louis' armed himself with a can of disinfectant spray – a gift from Niall, probably – and keeps aiming it at Harry whenever his pacing comes too close to Louis' safe zone.

It's hilarious in a distant sort of way, but Zayn's head is swimming with too much cough syrup to figure out if it's actually funny or the medicine. The only solace is that Harry's better and totally owes Zayn for sacrificing his good health in the first place. He's actually a pretty useless nursemaid, but his hands feel cool when he pets at Zayn's fever-hot forehead.

“Actually, I'm not unconvinced that you two did this on purpose, just to get the bus to yourselves. I know you act like you're secret marrieds--”

“We do not act like secret marri--” Harry starts to say at the same time Zayn rasps out, “ _what_?”

Louis cackles again. Spraying disinfectant into the air like it's silly string, he scampers off the bus, apparently satisfied that he's caused enough mischief. It's just as well, because the driver informs them they'll be heading out shortly, and the last thing Zayn needs is a Louis-induced headache on top of everything else.

Harry is uncharacteristically quiet as the bus pulls away, chewing on his bottom lip. His fingers find their way to Zayn's scalp, carding through the soft strands, and it's soothing enough that Zayn drifts into an uneasy sleep.

It's still dark when he wakes up, halos of moonlight blinking through the windows and the bus rumbling beneath him as they roll down the road. It takes him a long moment to focus his eyes, and then Harry swims into view, sprawled out on the couch across from Zayn, mobile in hand. Bars of light and shadow catch on the bare skin of his chest, his tattoos sliding in and out of stark relief as the highway slips by beneath them.

He must feel Zayn's gaze, because he looks up after a moment, face lit with the too bright glare of his mobile, shadows stretching and snapping over the contours of his features, making him look like a stranger.

“Hi,” he says, voice a little rusty. “Feeling better?”

“Nngh,” Zayn says, because while he is feeling better, he's not feeling great.

Harry laughs, a tired sort of sound, and adds, “I am sorry, you know. I didn't mean to get you sick.”

“'S my fault anyway, yeah? Wanted to, like...” He can't figure out how to end his sentence, and lets it hang between them unfinished. Harry doesn't seem to mind, or notice, even, frowning at something on his phone.

“Better not be tweeting some dumb philosophical shit,” Zayn yawns. “'S, like, four am. Should be asleep.”

“It's three, actually,” Harry corrects, like it makes a difference. “And I'm not – god, I see why you tried to delete your Twitter account. What the  _fuck_.”

He's still frowning down at his phone, brow furrowed, and there's venom in his voice that Zayn rarely hears.

“Whatever it is, leave it alone,” Zayn advises. “C'mon, you know better.”

“They're accusing you of using drugs,” Harry says flatly. “They're saying that's why you were sick.”

He doesn't elaborate on who 'they' is, but Zayn knows it doesn't matter. “Yeah, well. The mysterious one, innit.”

“That's such bullshit,” Harry growls. “You shouldn't – it's not  _fair_.” He doesn't say what they both know, that there were no rumors like that when Harry was sick, that their collection of tattoos should paint them with the same brush, but somehow Zayn's quiet retreats on off days are treated worse than Harry's drunken nights out on the town.

“People are gonna chat shit, yeah? I don't let it bother me, like.”

“It should bother you,” Harry says darkly. “They're  _wrong_.”

Zayn shakes his head. “The people who know me, they realize that. They don't believe the bullshit. Don't have to prove myself to anyone who counts, ya know? 'S all that matters.”

Harry doesn't look convinced, something fierce in his expression as he glares at his phone.

“Leave it alone,” Zayn says again. “Seriously, Harry. It's not worth it.  _They're_  not worth it.”

“You deserve better.” The words are soft, but Harry says them with conviction. He finally drops his phone, letting the screen go dark.

 

 

In all honesty, Zayn sort of forgets about Louis' mum's wedding. He hadn't planned to attend, because spending time making nice with relative strangers, even if they were Louis' family, held a lot less appeal than quality time with his own sisters, and more importantly Louis hadn't cared. Zayn had, with the help of his mum, picked out a nice wedding gift to send to Jay, though god knew that Louis had probably bought out everything on her gift registry.

And, okay, it wasn't as if Zayn forgot the  _date_  of the wedding. It was floating around in his subconscious somewhere, along with a mental note to text Louis, and to start packing for the tour again. The problem is that Zayn sort of forgot today's date. As well as yesterday's, and the day before. It was the best thing about being on a break, one day sliding into the next with no urgency.

Lip caught between his teeth, Zayn shakes the bottle of spray paint he has in hand, head cocked as he studies the wall. He's been working on a piece, something a bit abstract with a lot of color, for, well – he glances at his watch-less wrist. A while, he supposes. The window is open wide for ventilation, but London's humid summer air is no match against the sharp tang of paint fumes.

The doorbell chimes, breaking Zayn's concentration, and he frowns. Danny and Ant are both at work, and his sisters left for Bradford hours ago, piled high with gifts. Louis maybe isn't the only one who likes to spoil his family.

Setting down the can with a quiet clink, Zayn heads down the hall towards the stairs. The air in the hallway immediately starts to clear his head, and he registers the growling in his stomach as a problem he'll need to address sooner rather than later. He gets lost, sometimes, when he paints.

He's barely made it down the steps before the sound of the doorbell gives way to impatient knocking, a sloppily aggressive rat-a-tat that makes his lips thin. The thought crosses his mind that he could ignore it, head straight to the kitchen and see what leftovers his fridge might be hiding, but then Harry's voice joins the knocking, whinging for Zayn to let him in.

Rolling his eyes, Zayn pads on bare feet to the door, swinging it open wide. Harry leans his shoulder against the door frame, the edges of his smile slippery with alcohol. Zayn's eyes trail down the pale vee of his chest, his black shirt unbuttoned nearly to his navel, and he takes in the overall aesthetic.

“Are you wearing a bandana as an accessory?”

Harry tips his fedora towards Zayn. His actual fedora.

“Oh, god. Tell me you did not wear that to Jay's wedding.  _Mate_.”

“What's wrong with it?” Harry grins.

Grabbing Harry by the bicep, Zayn tugs him inside. “Last thing I need is for you to be papped wearing that disaster outside my house.”

Harry lets himself be pulled along, settling on a stool in Zayn's kitchen in a loose-jointed sort of way that suggests Harry's halfway to pissed. Which is interesting, because - “Wasn't the wedding in Manchester?”

Harry shrugs.

Grabbing a bottle of water and a tupperware container of something promising from the fridge, Zayn catches Harry's eye. “You didn't  _drive_  here, did you?”

Scoffing, Harry snatches his hand out for the water bottle. “Course not.” He cracks open the bottle, chugging back half of it one go. His hat clings for dear life, defying gravity with its determination to stay perched on Harry's head.

Shaking his head, Zayn cracks open the tupperware and takes a hesitant sniff. It's a move he immediately regrets. Snapping the lid back on, he bins the whole thing. He really needs to get better about cleaning out the fridge before his leftovers start generating new life.

“So why are you here, exactly?” Zayn asks, eyeing the contents of the fridge a second time with more caution.

“Flying out to LA tomorrow. Wanted to see you first.”

Zayn glances at Harry over the open door of the fridge. At his brow raise, Harry adds, “I missed you.”

“You know we're in the middle of a worldwide arena tour, yeah? You're literally going to see me again in a few days.”

“Yeah, but...” he trails off, face wrinkled in confusion, like he got lost halfway through his thought.

Giving up on his fridge magically producing unspoiled leftovers, Zayn lets the door swing shut, walking over to the island to lean his elbows on the counter across from Harry, who bats his bottle of water back and forth between his hands, leaving a smear of condensation on the counter. It's sort of hypnotizing, both of them watching the movement with the concentration of a kitten staring down a laser pointer.

“Got something stronger?” Harry finally asks, breaking the spell.

Wordlessly, Zayn turns back to the fridge, grabbing a frosted bottle of vodka from the freezer. He slides it towards Harry, who immediately abandons his water. Zayn's about to dig through his cabinets for a couple of glasses, but Harry unscrews the cap and presses the rim of the bottle to his lips, tipping it up to swallow down a long pull.

Zayn watches the way his throat works, the grimace he makes as he sets the bottle back on the table, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist.

He pushes it towards Zayn. “Your turn.”

It's a terrible idea, drinking on an empty stomach. Harry's lips are wet, though, and Zayn wonders if he'd be able to taste the alcohol on them. It's not the kind of thought he normally has about a mate, so Zayn wraps his fingers around the bottle, the glass a burning cold against his skin. He knocks back the equivalent of a shot or two, feels it settle heavily in the pit of his stomach.

“Why are you here, Harry?” he asks again.

Harry doesn't answer. He pushes off his stool, walking around the island so that the expanse of countertop is no longer between them. Zayn doesn't realize that he's still gripping the bottle of vodka until Harry pries it from his fingers, shoving it away. Up close, Zayn can see that Harry's eyes are a little glassy, his cheeks flushed with alcohol.

He leans in, and for a single, infinite moment, Zayn thinks Harry's going to kiss him. Instead, he tilts his head at the last minute, lips skating recklessly over Zayn's jaw, warm breath tickling his skin as he huffs out a soft laugh.

“Missed you,” he says into Zayn's ear, mouth close enough that his lips brush Zayn's skin.

Zayn shivers, leaning away from Harry's touch before he can feel the way Zayn's pulse is jackrabbiting in his throat. He can smell the alcohol on Harry's breath. It feels like they're hurtling towards something inevitable, but Zayn doesn't want it to happen like this.

“You hungry? Think I'm gonna order something.”

Harry lets him retreat, his expression unreadable. He doesn't make another move, even when they split a Chinese, sat thigh to thigh on the couch, but Zayn can feel the weight of his gaze all night.

 

 

**(north america)**

 

They don't talk about Harry's impromptu trip to Zayn's house after the wedding by some unspoken agreement. It feels less like sweeping it under the rug, and more like a fragile truce. This – thing, whatever it is, has grown big enough that it's like an elephant in the room, and Zayn knows that if either one of them acknowledges it, they'll have to talk about it.

Zayn's not sure he's ready to talk about it.

They orbit each other cautiously, neither one edging into the other's space. Zayn follows Louis onto Bus 1 more often than not, his home away from home, and Harry fills his time babysitting Lux, or out on the course with Niall.

On stage, though, all bets are off. Harry crashes into Zayn with no finesse, all teasing smiles and too bright eyes. It's like he saves it all up for the shows, exhibitionist that he is, like he thinks maybe the flirting doesn't count, if it's in front of thousands of screaming fans.

Maybe it doesn't.

The banter, the poking and prodding – it's really standard show material, in all honesty. They wind each other up, the five of them, take the piss, pushing and pulling, and the crowd eats it up, screaming for more.

Harry, though. He seems to have it out for Zayn.

Between songs, Harry's always there, curling an arm over Zayn's shoulder, pulling Zayn into his side, too hot under the bright lights. Sometimes, the only warning Zayn will have is the tight squeeze of Harry's fingers before he's leaning in, face pressed close to Zayn's to whisper some nonsense in his ear, his curls ticking Zayn's cheek. It's nothing he hasn't done before on stage, but the way he lingers before he pulls away is new, almost like he's staking his claim and daring Zayn to do something about it.

And, well. Zayn's never been one to back down from a challenge. He gives as good as he gets, edging up on his toes to wrap his arm around Harry's shoulders, or letting his cheek brush against Harry's as he whispers something back, wondering if he imagines the way Harry shivers at the rasp of his stubble.

Harry will strut past him on stage, belting out his verse, catching Zayn's gaze out of the corner of his eye. Zayn will watch him walk on by, careful to keep his expression impassive, and reach out at the last minute to smack his arse, darting away when Harry yelps.

It's like a game, almost, that starts the moment they walk out on stage and ends the second they step off, the tension building and building, but never quite boiling over.

At a show in Philadelphia – or maybe DC? Zayn can never keep track when they're in America, one city bleeding into the next, has to ask Niall to refer to one of his many spreadsheets – Harry drops to his knees in front of Zayn at the end of a song, arms spread wide, Zayn's for the taking. On instinct, Zayn pumps his hips, and Harry falls onto his back, sprawling wide like he's going to make a snow angel. He does it again a few nights later, falling to his knees and grinning up at Zayn like it's a cute inside joke, simulating blow jobs on stage. With a wry smile of his own, Zayn humors him with a tiny thrust towards Harry's red mouth. The cameras are flashing, bright spots of blinding white light, and Zayn finds he doesn't care that the moment will end up splattered across the internet.

No one's got the angle he has, of Harry's upturned face, lips stretched in a smile and green eyes glittering under the lights, shinning like they're full of stars, or something equally disgustingly poetic. Zayn berates himself for comparing Harry's eyes to celestial bodies, because he didn't think he was that much of a cliché, and it makes it easier to ignore the way he's clenched his fingers to stop himself from reaching out to cup Harry's jaw, to run his thumb over Harry's lower lip and push it into the heat of his mouth.

After that show, Harry gets pulled into a long conversation with Lou, a sleepy Lux balanced on her hip, and Zayn beats a hasty retreat back to the hotel to take a long, cold shower.

A few nights later, they're in another stifling hot American city, possibly Ohio, and Zayn's made it through nearly an entire show without publicly embarrassing himself.

Everything goes a bit pear-shaped during Niall's speech. He's thanking the crowd, standing front and center while the rest of the boys are sat to the side of the stage. Well, all the boys save for Harry, who's seated himself a short distance away and has become distracted by something thrown onto the stage.

Zayn lets his gaze flick between Niall and Harry, watching with growing amusement as Harry picks up whatever the thing is and turns it over in his hands, examining it for a moment before his face suddenly lights up in a smile.

Zayn knows that smile. It means trouble.

He watches as Harry pries open the packaging and pulls out an object that looks like a collection of white, beaded necklaces. It's not until Harry holds it up to inspect it further that Zayn realizes what it is. He nearly bursts out laughing.

“Ooh, sick. Put it on!” he teases, Niall's speech forgotten.

The rest of the boys finally seem to realize that Harry's holding up a candy thong, and then there's a chorus of chanting for Harry to put it on, completely derailing the rest of Niall's speech. It takes Harry three seconds to comply, his grin wicked as he slides it up his legs, letting the elastic settle around his hips. The white of the candy stands out in stark relief against Harry's black jeans, neatly framing his junk. Zayn can't help the laugh that escapes.

Harry saunters over to where Zayn's sat with Louis and Liam, clearly relishing the deafening screams, and hooks a finger under the band, tugging it closer to Zayn's lips, daring him to take a bite.

Peering up at Harry from beneath his lashes, a dirty trick he's got no qualms about using, Zayn holds Harry's gaze while he leans forward and wraps his lips around a bite of candy. The screams grow even louder, an ear-shattering decibel, and Harry throws back his head with a full-bellied laugh while Zayn crunches down on the thong, reaching out a hand to hold the string steady.

The moment's over in a flash, Louis squawking indignantly about letting Niall finish his speech and Harry slipping the thong back off, sliding it down his long legs and getting briefly tangled up with his pigeon-toed feet before he frees himself.

Zayn forces his eyes to cut away, scratching at his stubble.

 

 

“Zayn. Zayn. Zaaaayn.”

Grunting, Zayn presses his face into his pillow, pulling the duvet tighter around his shoulders. There's an artificial chill in the room, the quiet hum of the A/C pumping away to stave off the New Orleans heat, and a finger pressing insistently into Zayn's cheek.

“Zayn,” Harry's voice comes again, just above a whisper. “Wake up, Zayn.”

“Fuck off,” Zayn mumbles. They've got a day off and Zayn plans to spend all of it right here in this bed, too tired and lethargic to brave the heat and the fans and the outside world in general.

Harry, it seems, has other ideas. Zayn feels the mattress dip as Harry climbs onto the bed, and then a warm body is curling around his, Harry's arm draped over Zayn's waist. It feels nice, like a warm, safe, cocoon, so Zayn nearly jumps out of his skin when Harry's fingers find his nipple and he pinches, hard.

There's a loud yelp from the floor when Harry lands with a thud and Zayn doesn't even feel a little bit bad about shoving him off the bed.

“Serves you right,” he mutters. “A man's bed's his castle.”

“I don't think that's true,” Harry argues, and Zayn can hear the laugh in his voice. “C'mon, Zayn. You can sleep when you're dead. I wanna find a fortune teller.”

Zayn snorts. That is easily the worst reason Harry's had for waking him up, and Harry's had a laundry list of terrible reasons to wake Zayn up.  “Spoiler alert, Haz. You don't win the X-Factor, but you get famous anyway.”

“Don't be a twat. We should get our palms read. We've got a lot of life left to live, Zayn. Don't you want to know what's coming next?”

There's really only one question Zayn wants answered, and he doesn't think he's going to find it in a crystal ball, or written in the lines on his palm. Rolling over, he blinks an eye open at Harry. “Give me your hand,” he orders. “I'll read your damn palm.”

Looking delighted, Harry promptly thrusts his hand into Zayn's face, palm up and fingers wriggling with excitement.

“Stop moving. I need to concentrate.” Tongue tucked between his teeth, Zayn makes a big show of examining Harry's palm, tracing his fingers over the lines etched into his skin. Knelt on the floor next to the bed, Harry props his chin up on his arm, eyes fixed on his hand in Zayn's and the hint of a dimple blooming in his cheek.

After a moment, Zayn taps his finger against the center of Harry's palm. “See this line here? 'S your fortune line. Stretches all the way across. Means you're gonna be filthy rich someday.”

It's Harry's turn to snort and Zayn can feel his cheeks pull up into a smile. He moves his finger up, indicating another line. “And this one, here?” He waits until Harry nods before continuing. “That's your life line. See that break right there? Sorry, mate, dunno how to break it to you, but you're gonna die young if you don't stop waking me up all fuckin' the time.”

“You're a terrible fortune teller,” Harry complains. “That's not what it means at all.”

“Sorry, no refunds,” Zayn says around a yawn, flopping back against the mattress. It takes him a moment to realize he's still holding Harry's hand, but it seems, like, awkward to pull away now, so he lets their fingers stay tangled up together, like it's a normal thing they do.

It doesn't seem to bother Harry, at any rate. He's only quiet for a few seconds before he starts tugging at Zayn's hand, pushing at his fingers until he spreads them out, announcing, “It's my turn, then. Gonna read  _your_  palm.”

“Do I have to be awake?”

“Please, Zayn. This is serious business. Have some respect.”

The chances that Harry will actually let him fall back asleep are slim to none, so Zayn turns his head towards where Harry's got his hand cradled carefully, studying his palm intently. His tongue is poking out, brow furrowed in concentration, and Zayn has to swallow back a laugh at the ridiculousness of it.

For a long time, Harry doesn't do more than hum to himself, fingertips running over Zayn's palm in soothing circles, following the lines carved into his skin and looping back around until his entire palm is tingling.

“So what's my diagnosis,” he asks finally, when it appears Harry's not going to volunteer any information. His voice sounds a little rusty, like he still hasn't cleared away all the sleep.

“Mmm,” Harry purrs. Flicking his gaze up to meet Zayn's, he grins. “We've got matching fortune lines, if you can even believe it.”

“Shocking.”

“I know. And look, here-” Harry runs his finger along another line, and Zayn's fingers twitch reflexively. “ _Your_  life line is nice and sturdy, no sudden breaks or an early grave for you.”

Zayn bites his lip. “What a relief.”

“Uh huh.” Harry's grip on Zayn's hand tightens, making sure sure Zayn can't pull away. His fingertip traces along another line, stopping halfway across Zayn's palm. “This last line, though. I'm a bit concerned about it.”

“Are you?” Zayn manages.

Nodding seriously, Harry brushes his thumb across Zayn's skin, where sweat is starting to prick despite the steady chug of the A/C. “Yes,” he says. “It's your love line, and it's broken.”

“Harry...”

“Means you're gonna have heartache, Zayn,” he continues, fingers still determinately gripping Zayn's hand. “But – and this is the important part – you're gonna find love again. See this strong finish? You'll be all right. Promise.”

There's suddenly tension in the room that wasn't there before, which is the only reason Zayn says it. “Are you saying... that you make me strong?”

Harry gets it immediately, and where Niall or Louis would have groaned at the terrible joke, Harry barks out a loud laugh, tipping his head back with the force of it. Zayn can't help feeling pleased that he managed to land his joke so well, but then Harry's always an appreciative audience.

“Is that so wrong?” Harry whispers back, and then both of them are laughing, a near silent wheezing sort of laugh that has tears pricking at the corners of Zayn's eyes.

“That joke... was awful...” he huffs out brokenly, unable to stop laughing.

“You started it!” Harry accuses, equally winded.

Zayn's stomach hurts a bit by the time he manages to calm himself down, and Harry sounds like he's close to needing his inhaler.

“Y'all right, babe?” Zayn asks, squeezing his knuckles.

“I'll live,” Harry says. He glances down at his palm. “For a bit, anyway.”

Zayn's lip curls into an involuntary smile, but he manages to suppress another bout of laughter. “Breakfast?” he asks hopefully.

“Well, Lou was telling me about this little cafe, sort of off the beaten path, you know, but they've got these crepes-” he catches the look on Zayn's face and cuts himself off. “Or,” he says, lips quirked at the corners, “we could order room service?”

“Brilliant idea.”

Twenty minutes later, Zayn's got his hands curled around a warm cup of coffee, knees tucked up to his chin as he perches in his chair on the tiny balcony, as far away from the railing as he can get. Harry, with his usual lack of self-preservation and inexplicable comfort with heights, is tucking away at his breakfast, hair pulled back from his face with one of his numerous headbands. It matches the fabric of his sleeveless shirt suspiciously well, but it's not Zayn's business if Harry wants to murder his shirts in the name of headwear.

Unless.

“Is that my shirt?” Zayn asks, eyes squinted warily.

“Um.” Harry's got a forkful of egg halfway to his face, tongue stuck out like a frog to catch any bits that fall. “No?” he tries.

“You're lucky I love you,” Zayn sniffs.

Harry promptly chokes on a bite of egg, and Zayn nearly snorts scalding coffee out of his nose with laughter.

 

 

LA has a dry sort of heat that makes Zayn want to stretch out under the afternoon sun and take a long, restful nap. Instead, they're going to log some long hours shooting a new music video.

Zayn's used to being filmed, has had a camera trained on him virtually since his X-Factor days, but there's a difference between knowing a camera's on you and being on for the camera. He can never quite shake the painful self-awareness when he's acting, the sudden way he can't remember what a normal person does with their hands, the stiffness to his movements as he fails to act natural.

At least with the other boys around he doesn't feel like such a twat. Harry, of course, shows no outwards sign of nerves, babbling excitedly about working with Danny DeVito, mostly directly into Niall's ear. Niall puts up with it longer than the rest of them would, eyes on his mobile as he nods along to whatever Harry's saying. Louis disappeared the second he heard the chimpanzee had arrived on set, no doubt replacing Zayn as his partner in crime – not that Zayn blames him, monkeys are fucking sick – and Liam appears to be having a very serious conversation with some of the crew, all thoughtful nods and earnest eyebrows.

Which means that Zayn's left to his own devices, slipping into the coolness of the trailer on set and critically studying his hair in the mirror. It's grown too long to leave down, itching uncomfortably against his neck, but not long enough that he can pull it back into a ponytail, the way Harry tries sometimes. He's got it shoved back with a headband, and tells himself it looks better than Harry's t-shirt-turned-headscarves.

There's a creak as someone opens the trailer door, and then Harry's head is poking inside, cheeks dimpling when he spots Zayn. He's wearing his own hair down for the shoot, long enough to tickle his shoulders despite the stubborn wave, a shade too straight to be called curly.

“Zayn!” Harry beams. “Or should I saw...  _Mystery_.”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “The only mystery is why you're wearing that fucking coat, mate.”

Looking down at the offending garment in question, Harry grins. “Excellent costume, right? Feels very in-character.”

Zayn's careful not to ask what the hell Harry means by in-character, or why he thinks a leopard spotted coat is an excellent choice for anyone.

“Still,” Harry adds, completely unbothered. “Not the best costume we've ever had for a shoot, is it?”

Warily, Zayn catches Harry's eye in the reflection of the mirror. Harry's shit-eating grin tells him everything he needs to know.

“My vote, obviously, is Veronica,” Harry says before Zayn can figure out how to muzzle him. He walks close enough that he can hook his chin over Zayn's shoulder, addressing Zayn's reflection. Zayn can see the way a stray piece of his hair is brushing against Harry's cheek, though Harry does nothing to flick it away. “That was a sick costume.”

“It was all right,” Zayn allows. Harry's got one his arms looped around Zayn's waist, hugging him from behind. The trailer feels hot, all of a sudden, stuffy like there's not enough air.

“Better than all right,” Harry murmurs. His breath stirs the lock of hair, and the hand he has pressed to Zayn's abdomen feels like it's burning right through Zayn's shirt.

“I still think about it, sometimes. You were well fit, as a girl.”

“You saying I'm not well fit now?” Zayn aims for a dry tone, but his voice sounds weak, even to his own ears. Harry hums and Zayn can feel it in his chest, where he's pressed against Zayn's back.

“Nah. You're just pretty, aren't you?”

Zayn has to fight the urge to squirm, gaze still locked on Harry's in the mirror. “Sometimes,” Harry continues, voice a low rumble. “I think about... think about you wearing that skirt, and the way I could see the straps of your bra through your top.” He laughs, a quiet, almost husky sound. “I think about how hot it would have been, if you'd have had knickers on, too.”

“Jesus Christ, Harry,” Zayn grits out. He's got a white-knuckled grip on the vanity, swears he can hear the thudding of his heart, rattling loudly against his ribcage.

Harry nips at his earlobe, a quick sting of teeth, and untangles himself from Zayn. There's a shock of cold air in the space Harry leaves behind, and it grounds Zayn a little, gives him something to focus on.

He can see the tilt of Harry's mouth over his shoulder, the satisfied smirk like he's taken the game they've been playing onstage and upped the stakes, and Zayn's failed to match his bet. Zayn's competitive streak doesn't run nearly as deep as Louis', but both he and Harry can dig their heels in when they want to.

Taking a deep breath, Zayn slowly uncurls his fingers from their death grip, flexing each one in turn. He's not quite brave enough to face Harry, but he catches his eye in the mirror again, as if the reflective surface is some sort of barrier, a line they aren't quite crossing.

“Joke's on you, isn't it,” he says, and his voice comes out steady. “'Cause I've actually worn knickers before, and you never even knew it.”

The strangest look crosses Harry's face, an expression Zayn can't quite decipher. It feels like he's gotten the upper hand back, though, so he smiles sweetly at Harry and shoves away from the vanity.

“Break a leg,” he murmurs as he passes by Harry on his way out the door. Harry manages a choked sort of sound, and Zayn laughs, the sound of it lost beneath the creak of hinges as he makes his escape.

 

 

There are only a handful of dates left of the American leg, a handful of shows before Zayn can go home, see his family, and sleep for a week straight.

A handful of nights that he's forced to have a desperate wank in a strange hotel room, biting the meat of his palm to stifle the noise, always wary of too thin walls giving away his secrets.

He and Harry haven't been alone together since the shoot, always surrounded by the other boys or the crew, pulled in opposite directions during their downtime so often that Zayn thinks that the universe, or maybe Louis, is behind it.

So it doesn't come as a surprise that when he finally finds a room backstage at the venue that has a couch he can sprawl on, Harry's already there, and Liam is sat next to him. He can't decide if he's glad that Liam's there to buffer, or worried about just how fast things would escalate if he wasn't.

Harry glances up at Zayn's entrance, a dimple piercing his cheek, and ducks his head to whisper something to Liam. Zayn lets himself sink down onto the cushion, wedging in between Liam and the arm of the couch, and pretends he doesn't see the curious glance Liam shoots at him.

“I want to have a dance party,” Harry announces.

“That's nice, Haz,” Liam says supportively. He doesn't actually get off the couch though, even when Harry tugs insistently at his arm, too busy scrolling through Twitter on his phone. Giving up with a pout, Harry turns to Zayn. “Please?”

“Saving my energy for the show, babe.”

“You're all terrible mates,” Harry informs them, wrestling his mobile out of the pocket of his skinny jeans. Zayn's got no idea how he got it in there in the first place with anything short of sorcery. He watches as Harry frowns down at his phone, a stray strand of hair falling across his eyes, until his lips twist up in a sudden grin.

He looks at Zayn triumphantly as the tinny sounds of 'Jessie's Girl' blast out of his speakers, and he sets his phone down on the edge of a table, holding out his hand. “C'mon, Zayn. It's our song.”

Zayn raises a brow, unimpressed. “Don't know why that's supposed to convince me to get up off this couch.”

“Oh!” Liam says, sounding excited as he glances up from his own phone. “Is this that song you and Harry always dance to? With the--” he flails his arms out in a close approximation to the dance he and Harry actually do, and Zayn's nose crinkles he smiles so hard.

“Close, Liam, but not quite--” he cuts himself off as Harry grabs for his wrist, pulling him up.

“C'mon, c'mon,” Harry begs. “Let's do it proper.”

It's not like Zayn can say no, under the combined pressure of Harry and Liam's puppy dog eyes. He sighs dramatically, so everyone knows how put out he is, before lining himself up next to Harry. They've more or less got the choreography down – better than anything they try to pull off on stage, at any rate – but they crash into each other a few times, accidental hip checks that leave both of them in stitches.

Maybe it's the dancing, or the way a flush spreads across Harry's cheeks when he laughs too hard, but Zayn feels a looseness in his joints, letting himself go completely. It's rare he'll dance like this on stage, when he can feel so many eyes on him, but when it's just him and the boys, he doesn't feel so stupid, waving his arms about and thrusting his hips in time with Harry's while Rick Springfield croons away, asking why he can't find a woman like that.

Harry must've had a playlist going, because another song starts up as soon as the last notes of 'Jessie's Girl' fade. Harry hip checks him on purpose this time, quirking up his eyebrows, and Zayn checks him back. Their careful coordination evaporates completely, but Zayn thinks that what their dancing lacks in finesse is more than made up with their enthusiasm.

He's a little sweaty and a lot winded when they both collapse back onto the couch, which Liam apparently vacated sometime during their impromptu dance session.

“Did you see him leave?” Zayn asks, still catching his breath.

Shaking his head, Harry shoves his fringe out of his eyes. “Think we overwhelmed him.”

Zayn nods, mock serious. “It was the hair flips.”

Harry looks at him with wide eyes for a second before he bursts into laughter. “Why does everyone say my jokes are terrible?” he complains. “Yours are fucking  _awful_.”

“Learned from the best, didn't I?”

It's not until Zayn's managed to get his breathing under control that he realizes the significance of Liam leaving. Harry's taking up nearly an entire cushion on his own, limbs flopping about like he's got pool noodles for arms and legs, and Zayn's sort of draped himself along Harry's side, one his legs hooked over Harry's knee. It's not any different than he'd sit with any of his boys, minus the bit where it feels like he and Harry have been one romcom moment away from actually snogging for months.

Backstage at a venue, sat on a dingy couch and surrounded by dusty furniture, doesn't seem like a particularly romantic spot, but Zayn can't really focus on anything other than the feeling of Harry's arm curled around his shoulders, fingers tracing circles over his bicep, just below the cuff of his t-shirt sleeve.

Harry's face is close enough that Zayn could count his eyelashes, can see the striations of color in his irises, storm cloud gray and mossy green, that make his eyes look like seaglass. His lips are as pink as a girl's, and they feel as soft when Harry leans in, brushing his thumb over Zayn's cheekbone before he ducks his head and slants his mouth across Zayn's.

His eyes flutter shut as he kisses Harry back, burying his fingers in Harry's soft hair and licking over the seam of his lips. Harry presses his thumb into the hinge of Zayn's jaw, encouraging him to open his mouth, and immediately slips his tongue behind Zayn's teeth, swallowing the sounds Zayn can't stop from escaping.

Kissing Harry is a dizzying experience. It's a full frontal assault on all of Zayn's senses; the slick, hot slide of Harry's tongue against his; the wet noises when Harry sucks on his bottom lip, biting down gently; the scent of Harry's cologne, something rich and heady that Zayn knows is going to trigger memories of this moment for years to come.

It feels like ages, but can't be more than a few minutes before Harry pulls back, breaking the kiss, and rests his forehead against Zayn's. He feels breathless again, like his lungs can't expand enough to get the oxygen he needs, and he clings harder, fingers twisting in Harry's hair.

There's a bang just outside the door and they spring apart, managing a few inches of distance before Louis bursts into the room, talking loudly about something Liam-related Zayn can't find a single fuck to care about. At least it distracts Louis enough that he doesn't seem to notice the way Harry's lips are a wet, bruised red, and Zayn presses the back of his hand to his own mouth, realizing he's probably in a similar state.

Harry squeezes his shoulder once, hard, before he extracts his arm from around Zayn.

“ _Later_ ,” he mouths, when Louis has his back turned, and Zayn nods, hand still pressed against his lips.

 

 

Zayn feels like he's crawling out of his skin on stage that night, this insistent buzz in his veins, his blood too hot, pumping too fast. Harry's on him like a barnacle, his arm hooking around Zayn's neck, his fingers pinching Zayn's side, his breath ghosting across Zayn's cheek as he leans in to whisper nonsense, not at all caring about the screaming crowd analyzing their every move.

He keeps his words tame, at least – until the final encore. The second Zayn finishes his verse in 'What Makes You Beautiful,' Harry's there, leaning in to whisper hotly into Zayn's hear, “Tonight, come to my room. Wanna finish what we started.” There's no way to subtly adjust yourself with thousands of eyes on you and half as many cameras, so Zayn has to rely on the tightness of his jeans to prevent any awkward bulges.

He gets his revenge during Harry's solo, lining up behind him in their customary vee, waiting for Harry's last line before he reaches out, foregoing his usual arse grope for something a bit ruder, letting his fingers slip down the seam of Harry's trousers until he'd be cupping his balls, were Harry naked.

Harry jumps about a foot, leveling Zayn with a glare, and Zayn winks.

He's all over Zayn the second they get backstage, crowding in close and draping himself over Zayn's back, mouthing at his earlobe even though the boys and the crew are still around.

“Get a room,” Louis hoots, slapping Niall's hand in a high-five as if it was a particularly clever retort.

“I plan on it,” Harry replies, and the rest of the lads laugh like it's a joke. Zayn can feel the way Harry's hips are pressed against his arse, though, the evidence that Harry is very much not joking in the slightest.

“Need to go back to mine to shower, then I'll come to yours, yeah?” Zayn mutters when they reach they hotel, taking the service entrance to avoid the crowd of fans gathered out front.

“Hurry,” is all Harry says, letting him go with reluctance.

Zayn hasn't hurried a day in his life, and he's not about to start now. He takes his time in the shower, shampooing his hair and soaping himself thoroughly, letting the stream of hot water wash away the sweat and tension from the show, the cloud of steam clearing his foggy head. Wrapping a towel around his hips when he steps out, he doesn't bother doing anything with his hair, but considers the contents of his suitcase carefully before finally tugging on an outfit to make the short trek down the hall to Harry's room.

He doesn't hesitate when he knocks on Harry's door, and Harry opens it immediately, like he'd been waiting on the threshold for Zayn. Grabbing Zayn by the collar of his shirt, Harry pulls him inside, crowding him back against the door as it clicks shut and kissing him messily, all tongue and teeth.

Zayn snakes his arms around Harry's waist, one had dipping down to cup his arse, pulling Harry's hips flush against his and groaning at the contact. Harry quickly gets the hint, grinding into Zayn, lips trailing kisses across Zayn's jawline, down the column of Zayn's throat.

It's a heady sort of rush, the way Harry's clearly gagging for it, but Zayn didn't come here to nut in his pants, pinned to a fucking door. Sneaking a hand between their chests, Zayn shoves him back half a step, swallowing Harry's low whine at the loss of contact in another kiss.

“Get your kit off, and get on the bed,” Zayn murmurs, shoving at Harry's chest again. For a second, Harry blinks at him with heavy-lidded eyes before nodding quickly, almost tripping in his haste to get to the bed. Zayn watches as he pulls his shirt over his head, chucking it to the floor, and shoves his pants down his thighs, kicking them off when they get caught around one ankle. Harry sinks back onto the mattress once he's naked, stretching out with no sign of shyness, letting Zayn look his fill.

Zayn's still dressed in a worn t-shirt and trackies, standing at the foot of Harry's bed, lip bitten as he watches Harry curl a fist around himself, pumping his already hard cock lazily.

“Stop,” he says on instinct, just to see what Harry will do. Harry stops, eyes fixed on Zayn and lips parted, apparently waiting for the next command.

Zayn swallows. “No touching,” he says, voice sounding more confident than he feels. “Just want you to watch.”

Breathing in sharply through his nose, Harry slowly uncurls his fingers from around his cock, grabbing fistfuls of the sheets on either side of his thighs instead.

Zayn waits until Harry's gone still again before slowly peeling his shirt over his head. He watches the way Harry's eyes rake down his bare chest, sees the way they widen when Harry catches sight of the dark lace peeking out above the waistband of Zayn's trackies.

“Zayn,” Harry says brokenly, his voice deeper than Zayn's ever heard it. “You--”

He can't finish his sentence, swallowing audibly when Zayn tucks his thumbs into his waistband, pushing his trackies down slowly until they're sitting at the tops of his thighs, and then letting them fall to the ground, fabric pooling around his ankles.

It's hard to say if the way Zayn's face heats up is because he's never actually worn a pair of knickers in front of anyone, or the reverent look on Harry's face as his gaze snags on the way Zayn's cock is pushing out of the lace, stretching out the flimsy material. Stepping out of his trackies, Zayn stalks closer to the bed, until his knees hit the edge of the mattress. Harry hasn't moved, hands still gripping the sheets tightly and his chest rising and falling rapidly, a thin sheen of sweat already coating his skin.

Zayn edges his way onto the bed, crawling up between Harry's spread legs. He can hear the hitch in Harry's breath when he places his hands on Harry's thighs, sliding them up until he's holding onto Harry's hips, thumbs tracing over Harry's skin.

“Tell me what you want,” Zayn says. It's like his brain has shut off, overwhelmed with the possibilities. There are so many things he wants to do with Harry,  _to_  Harry, but mostly he wants him to feel good, to know exactly how to take him apart.

“I – I don't –  _Zayn_ ,” Harry croaks out. He still hasn't moved, like he's waiting for permission, and Zayn can see the sweat beading on his upper lip.

“'S all right, babe,” he soothes. “I'll take care of you, yeah?” Before Harry can stutter out a reply, Zayn leans down to kiss him, bracing his hands on the swallows adorning Harry's chest. He can feel the frantic thrum of Harry's heartbeat beneath his palm, can taste the desperation in Harry's mouth as he kisses Zayn back.

Balancing on one hand, Zayn reaches down to where Harry's fingers are tangled in the sheet, grasping his wrist and tugging it up until Harry's fingertips brush the thin fabric covering his arse. Harry immediately slides his fingers over the material, tracing the lacy edge and letting his hand dip lower, his touch gentle against the bare skin left uncovered by Zayn's knickers. It feels more intimate than having nothing on, especially when Harry slips his thumb beneath the elastic, teasing against the fabric.

“Don't take these off,” Harry begs when Zayn pulls away to breathe. “You're so—” he doesn't finish his sentence, instead tipping his face up to press a kiss to Zayn's throat, teeth scraping for only a second. His hand is still on Zayn's arse, fingers biting into Zayn's skin hard enough to leave a mark. He shivers.

Grabbing for Harry's other wrist, Zayn tugs that one up too, so that both of Harry's hands are cupping his arse, the spread of his fingers wide enough that they completely cover the lace, his fingertips brushing against Zayn's bare skin. “So good, Haz,” Zayn mumbles. “Doin' exactly what I told you. Keep your hands on me, yeah. Don't touch y'self.”

He can feel the way Harry shudders beneath him, his grip flexing on Zayn's arse. Zayn takes his time, kissing across Harry's jaw and down his neck, sucking a mark onto his collarbone that will mostly be covered by a shirt, biting gently on a nipple just to hear Harry whine. He slides his hands up and down Harry's chest, fingers slotting in the spaces between his ribs, but he never lets them drift any lower than the laurels inked across his hips, completely ignoring his leaking cock.

Obediently, Harry keeps his hands on Zayn, slipping his fingers beneath the lace stretched across Zayn's arse, occasionally letting one hand slip up Zayn's back, nails scratching whenever Zayn uses his teeth. Zayn can feel the way Harry's thighs are trembling with the effort to keep from thrusting his hips up, pressed tightly against Zayn's sides.

It's not until Zayn's worked his way back up Harry's body to kiss him again that he finally grinds his hips down, both of them groaning at the contact. The scratch of lace against his sensitive cock as he works his hips against Harry's nearly makes him whimper, and Harry sounds equally wrecked, his breath coming in gasping pants. He starts babbling in Zayn's ear, a litany of Zayn's name and the word please, over and over, but he keeps his hands on Zayn, gripping tightly.

Reaching between them, Zayn gets a hand around Harry's cock, nearly grinning at the hiss Harry lets out at the contact. Clenching his thighs together, he guides Harry's cock until the head of it catches against the material of Zayn's knickers, slipping easily in the space between his legs, precome and sweat slicking the way.

“Fuck me,” Zayn bites out, and it's all the prompting Harry needs to snap his hips up in a quick rhythm. Each thrust has Harry's cock brushing against Zayn's sensitive perineum, dragging the lacy material against his skin. He tries to catch the noises spilling out of Harry's mouth, but it's all he can do just to breathe.

“Don't come,” he orders. “Until you make me come first.”

Harry's lips are puffy and red, wisps of hair sticking to his sweaty forehead, and his pupils are blown wide and black as he looks up at Zayn. Without a hitch in the rhythm of his hips, he manages to get one of his hands between them, fingers trailing down Zayn's abs and beneath the waistband of his knickers. The fabric is pulled so tight he can barely circle his fingers around Zayn's cock, but he doesn't have to do much more than brush his palm over the sensitive head before Zayn's coming, spilling over Harry's fist and staining the front of his knickers.

It only takes Harry a few more thrusts before he comes with a choked off whimper, coating the inside of Zayn's thighs and thoroughly ruining the lacy fabric. Zayn can feel the come dripping down his legs, uncomfortably warm and sticky, as he collapses onto his side, still tangled up with Harry.

“Fuck, Zayn,” Harry rasps after a long moment, the quiet punctuated only by the sounds of their harsh breathing.

“I know.” He's got one leg threaded through Harry's, their skin sticking with sweat and come where they touch, and Harry turns his face to press a soft kiss to Zayn's temple. He needs a shower, a smoke, and a clean bed, but he stays cuddled into Harry's side, listening to the way the thud of Harry's heartbeat gradually slows beneath his cheek.

It's sort of funny how he's thousands of miles away from the comfort of his own room, but Zayn's never felt more at home.

  


 


End file.
